“I don’t even remember how to flirt.”
“What’re you talking about? You flirted our way in here tonight.”
“That wasn’t really flirting,” Ellen said. “That was just flattering him. Flirting means they ask you out after.”
“You want the manager to come over and ask you out?” Rae clarified, trying to soothe Ellen with a practical solution. “Because he will in two seconds flat.” She knew that if the manager asked her out, Ellen would immediately decline and run to the bathroom to call Aaron, confessing how completely in love she was with him, how she’d never ever felt this way before and never ever wanted it to end.
“No,” Ellen said, looking conflicted. The manager was nowhere to be seen, but she waved the waiter back over. “Any chance you could bring us some”—Ellen wiggled her voice—“olive oil?”
The waiter returned promptly with both olive oil and vinegar.
“See,” Sarah said. “You’ve still got it.”
“No, all my allure has dried up,” Ellen lamented. “He was clearly making eyes at Rae, not me.”
“That’s objectively false,” Rae said. “You’re blocking my face. He can’t even see me.”
“I actually think Ellen’s right,” Mina said. “There was definitely some kind of spark. Rae, you should pass him your number.”
“Tonight is aboutEllen,” Rae said, peeking out from behind Ellen’s shoulder to glare at Mina.
“Yes, and Ellen wants to vicariously experience our complete sexual freedom,” Mina said, scribbling her own number on the back of a pink business card she procured from her purse.
Under the table, Rae checked her phone. Dustin had been radio silent the past week, texting only once to say he was “dealing with things.” Part of being his friend, the hardest part of it, was respecting his space. All the articles and blog posts and forums she’d read about depression emphasized how important that was. The internet was stuffed with so many stories about people who’d tried too hard to pull someone toward them, only to push them away altogether. The only thing she could do was wait for him to reach back out when he was ready.
Stowing her phone back in her pocket, she drowned the last of the bread in olive oil, then fed it to Ellen.
“Do you have any of those chocolate mints?” Sarah asked the waitress as she deposited the bill, which they split three ways. “It would be such a divine way to end the meal.”
Not deigning to answer, the waitress pinched her face and walked away.
“Excuse me,” Mina called out. “Could you get a photo of us?”
She didn’t turn around, so they settled on a selfie. Ellen’s eyes were closed, and the top half of Rae’s face was cut off, but Mina seemed pleased. “We look amazing,” she said, zooming in on her own face and trying on different filters. “What should I caption it?”
“How aboutFocaccia goddesses?” suggested Sarah.
“OrScramblette celebrity sighting,” said Rae. “Let’s stop by Percy’s Pizza on the way home,” she added. “I’m starving.”
“Late-night pizza is so juvenile,” Ellen said, but Rae could tell she was secretly craving two slices of pepperoni.
“It’s not juvenile, it’stimeless,” Rae corrected. “Let us never get too old to appreciate the triangular wonders of carbs, cheese, and sauce.”
“Hear, hear,” Sarah said, raising her empty champagne flute.
Rising from the table, they escorted a wobbly Ellen out of the restaurant, their feather headdresses flapping in the feisty spring breeze.
“Next stop, Percy’s Pizza,” Rae announced.
Ellen let out a disgruntled “Humph,” but she squeezed Rae’s arm three times in gratitude.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
BLURRING OF PLATONIC AND ROMANTIC INDUSTRY LINES
“I’ve never cohosted a real dinner party before,” Rae said two weekends later as she heated a pot of water at the Lorimer Loft, waiting for her big moment to dump in the package of pasta. “I’m addingsous chefto my résumé.”
“I’d hardly call this a real dinner party,” Dustin said from his spot beside her at the stove, where he was stirring marinara sauce with one hand and seasoning mushrooms and zucchini with the other. “But I’m not disputing your culinary talents. You make boiling water look easy.”
